


Bedrock

by clayrlibrarian



Series: Your hair was long when we first met [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cancer, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayrlibrarian/pseuds/clayrlibrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is always the first person Enjolras tells anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedrock

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel, it's also unbeta'd and was written very fast because tumblr user fangirl-squee seemed interested.

Combeferre doesn't know where Enjolras is.

Which is perfectly fine and normal. He doesn't always know where Enjolras is. They're best friends and have been that for years, brothers in all but blood and the people who know each other best, but they don't always know where the other is. It's okay, good, healthy not to always stick to each other. Hell, he doesn't know where Courfeyrac is 60% of the day and that's nothing special.

Combeferre doesn't always know where Enjolras is but Enjolras would usually be home, in their shared flat, right about now.

Usually, when Enjolras doesn't tell him about deviating from his routines, it's because he's doing something he knows Combeferre would want to talk to him about.

It's perfectly okay for Enjolras to be doing something without Combeferre's knowledge.

It's all okay.

The door opens and Enjolras enters.

It's all not okay. Very not okay.

He doesn't even need to ask if everything's all right, Enjolras' face is set in a hard, stony expression that would be terrifying to lesser people. There is nobody on this planet who knows Enjolras quite like Combeferre does and even he has only seen that expression once. The evening Enjolras, 15 and at odds with everyone and everything, had shown up on Combeferre's parents' doorstep and solemly informed him that his grandmother had died.

"What's wrong?", he asks instead as Enjolras sits down on the sofa next to him.

Enjolras gets out a sheet of paper and hands it to Combeferre.

Combeferre reads and it takes a while to hit him.

He understands this sheet. He's seen it before. He was an intern at the hospital's oncology ward long enough to know very well what those test results mean even without reading the paragraph where someone tried to explain it in a way that wouldn't make a patient break down crying.

There are very few ways to say "You have cancer." in a way that wouldn't make people react in unpleasant ways.

"Fuck," he whispers and it's not enough to sum up the situation. There is no swearword strong enough to do.

Enjolras' head is on his shoulder and he's not sure but he thinks this might be the first time in years that he outright demands comfort.

Combeferre puts an arm around him, lets Enjolras curl into him and tries his best to shield his friend from the world. This is the wrong time for himself to freak out. Definitely the wrong time.

He knows what this means, chemotherapy for this sort, Enjolras is young and health (except for that pile of cells, multiplying, multiplying, multiplying in his body), his chances are good, but it won't be easy.

"Courf and I will take care of everything you miss. You won't be out of comission forever, Les Amis will be fine and you know the university won't be a problem," he then says, quietly into his friend's hair and Enjolras nods into his chest. He doesn't know how he got those words to sound this calm and sure.

He's not sure how long they sit there like that until Enjolras, who had probably not slept the night before because appointments with doctors (and that was where he had been, Combeferre now knows and wishes Enjolras would never have had a reason to tell him), make him nervous and waiting for things does even more so, finally falls asleep.

He covers him in a blanket and goes back to his room to hit the books.

He knows this, he knows what Enjolras is going to go through. What'll happen to him. He knows the chances and the risks. Nevertheless, he spends hours pouring over books, scouring journals for research and developements, he becomes as much of an expert on the thing growing in Enjolras' body as it is possible to become in a few hours and nothing he finds changes one irrefutable fact.

His best friend might die. 

It's what the books say, in Latin terms and long-winded sentences and it is what he has seen, often enough, when working.

His best friend, the person he loves like a brother, who he had gotten to know over a decade ago and who he now knew better than anyone else, his other half in the most platonic sense, is going to go through grueling, painful therapy and might still die.

He's going to lose his long blond locks, which Combeferre had been using to find him in crowds ever since the day they fist met, even that time when he had broken his glasses and could recognize nothing more than half a meter from his face, he'd found his friends by looking for it and even with masses of people between them or when describing him to complete strangers. That'll be the first visible sign and it'll only get worse from there. He's also most likely going to lose even more weight and look worse than in the middle of finals with three protests to plan and there's nothing he, Combeferre, can do.

He's in this too deep to do anything. He's seen the families and friends of patients just as he has seen the patients themselves. He knows what is to come.

He can't do this. This is not a perspective on this situation that he can deal with. There's no way he can. He's too close. Enjolras and him are supposed to fight anything they encounter together, they never said so but they both know it and Combeferre never had any doubt that he would go through anything the world would throw at them but he can't do this.

The only way he can fight sickness is as a doctor, invested but removed from the situation, the distance of professionalism between him and the patient. There is no way he could ever distance himself from Enjolras. 

He sits in his room, hours after he found out, and sobs because there is no other time for him to. He's Combeferre. He's reliable. He's the calm to Courfeyrac's excitement and Enjolras' storm. He's bedrock for anyone who needs it and he knows there is no one who needs him calm, collected and supportive, the way Enjolras does right now. 

He doesn't know how he is supposed to be that anymore.


End file.
